


A Boy (And A Boy) In A Little Canoe

by rachherself



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachherself/pseuds/rachherself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grantaire has no idea how he ended up here, at this summer camp in the mountains, spending all of his time around kids under seventeen and 20-somethings who act like they're under seventeen."</p>
<p>The summer camp AU that the world didn't know it was missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for ages, and I want to thank everyone who beta'd for me - you all are amazing and deserve loads of credit.
> 
> This AU spawned from an ask from my good friend Katie, and it just kind of... snowballed out from there. If you want to read about stuff that hasn't been written yet, check out [the tag on my blog.](http://grantairricade.tumblr.com/tagged/summer%20camp%20au)
> 
> As I was looking for titles for this fic, I inadvertently got about twenty summer camp songs stuck in my head, so I hope you, too, get summer camp songs stuck in your head.
> 
> Camp is loosely based on the summer camp that I attended for eleven summers in the Adirondack mountains in upstate New York. The places I describe are real places, and the only thing that's been changed is the name of the camp.

Grantaire has no idea how he ended up here, at this summer camp in the mountains, spending all of his time around kids under seventeen and 20-somethings who _act_ like they're under seventeen. At least he's been assigned to the TP - the “trading post”, apparently, as someone had had to explain to him during staff week.

Thank God for being an art major, he guesses.

Anyway, he's been here for a week now and he's starting to get the routine down. Wake up at 8am, go down to the dining hall for a cup of coffee (bless Éponine and her questionably contraband espresso machine) and some cereal, and then hike back across camp to the TP to figure out what the craft of the day will be. When he's feeling like shit, it's just colouring, but when he's more up to it it's more adventurous stuff, like tie-dye and macramé and tape-and-bleach t-shirts.

He's been assigned the apartment above the TP to live in, a small nook with a hot plate and a three-quarter size bed that is, thankfully, not a bunk. It's barely wider than a twin, but it's enough to make all the counsellors jealous. They even have bunks in the staff buildings, and only Real Adults with families and kids get to live in the more house-like cabins along Staff Hill. Grantaire is one lucky bastard.

But it's his first summer at Camp (Camp Peekahoe, to be precise, but everyone just calls it Camp and he's fine with that) and he _thinks_ he's just getting the hang of it, and then he sees the blonde guy and he realises that, no, he's absolutely screwed.

Blonde Guy is tall, thin, tan as hell already - it's fucking _June_ , nobody should be that tan yet - and his hair is a riot of blonde curls. It's only a week into camp and he's got bracelets an inch thick on both wrists, a traditional gift from campers and co-counsellors alike.

Grantaire knows that Blonde Guy has been here for a few summers, from the way everyone talks about him like they've known him their entire lives, and Grantaire has yet to have his cabin group for Arts and Crafts. He's kind of nervous, because Blonde Guy is fucking _gorgeous_ and Grantaire knows he'll sound like an idiot in front of the kids if he's there, which he tries really hard to keep from happening the rest of the time.

It's Monday of the second week when Blonde Guy and his gaggle of adorable ten-year-olds stampede into the TP and Grantaire has thankfully set out all the beads and hemp and photocopies of macramé patterns in advance, so all he has to do is say in his somewhat falsely cheerful Camp Voice, "Hey, there's beads and hemp out, you can follow the patterns or make your own, just get creative!" and then he's done. He knows his cheeks are flaring because Blonde Guy is just _staring_ at him and _he doesn't even know the guy's name_ , for christ's sake.

And then Blonde Guy is walking over and Grantaire might die.

"Hey, I'm Enjolras," Blonde Guy says, and Grantaire tries really hard to act cool.

"I'm Grantaire. Uh, call me R, everyone else does."

Enjolras nods. "Cool. You're really good with the kids, you know? This is the first time they've been actually quiet in a week," he says, fiddling with the bracelets on his wrists. Grantaire is still trying to stay cool.

"Well, you know, give them beads and shit and they get all excited and intent, it's just my job."

Enjolras nods sagely, and they end up standing next to each other in silence until Grantaire tells the kids to start cleaning up an hour later and Enjolras shepherds them all out of the TP, tying on a new bracelet. Grantaire smiles quietly to himself and cleans up, getting ready for the next group.

* * *

 

"Why don’t you have a friendship bracelet?"

Grantaire lifts his head to look at who’s talking to him. It’s Enjolras. (This is the second time they've talked, officially, now that Enjolras has said something. Grantaire, again, tries to act cool.) His hair is transformed into a golden halo around his head, the nine am sun hitting it perfectly from the stained glass window in the peak of the TP.

"Huh?" Grantaire is too hungover for this shit, and he has a whole day of teaching kids how to do arts and crafts and make tie-dye or whatever ahead of him.

Enjolras sighs, a terse exhale. “All the counsellors have bracelets. Three kids asked me today why _you_ didn’t have one. I didn’t want to say that it’s because you’re a misanthrope who probably never leaves the TP.” Grantaire snorts. “It’s not funny,” Enjolras protests weakly.

"Apollo, I’m the emperor of the embroidery floss. I could make myself twenty friendship bracelets if I wanted to." Enjolras’s eyes narrow. It could be the nickname. Grantaire doesn't regret it.

"You know what, I’m going to make you one. And it will be _hideous_ , since I am not good at friendship bracelets,” Enjolras states, wrinkling his nose. Grantaire tries not to laugh.

"But, Apollo," he says, mock-serious, "you have to be _friends_ with someone to give them a friendship bracelet.” Enjolras is clearly popular, from the solid few inches of both wrists that are taken up by various brightly coloured bracelets, some made with more skill than others. He can recognise Combeferre’s work, neat and precise - he’s pre-med - and Courfeyrac’s, all glittery threads and complicated patterns.

(Grantaire will never tell Enjolras that he actually has about thirty bracelets already, after three weeks. He keeps them safe in a tin, because he knows that if he wears them he’ll fuck them up and hate himself for it.)

Enjolras huffs, bringing Grantaire out of his thoughts. “We _are_ friends. That’s the camp rule. _Everyone_ is friends.” Grantaire shakes his head. “Nope. You have to _mean_ it, with me.”

Enjolras’s cheeks flame. “Well. I. We're friends, right? I mean, I come hang out whenever my campers are here for Arts and Crafts, and I've seen you when you're working Camp Store."

"Doesn't count. We haven't _talked_ , you know, since that first day in the first week of camp."

Grantaire idly scratches at his stubble. He needs to shave, or Valjean, the inordinately nice guy who runs Camp, will have Javert come yell at him for looking scruffy and 'setting a bad example.'

"Fine," Enjolras huffs. "We'll start from the beginning, then. Hi, I'm Enjolras, I'm 20 years old, a Political Science major, and my favourite ice cream flavour is strawberry." He looks pointedly at Grantaire. "Your turn." This, clearly, is how you make friends at Camp.

"I'm Grantaire," Grantaire begins, "or R, and I'm 21 and an art major. I guess chocolate is my favourite. Or Ben and Jerry's Phish Food."

Enjolras is smiling. "And see? Now we're friends. Also, I got signed up to work Camp Store with you today. It's my day off."

Grantaire nods. "Okay."

They end up opening and closing the Store together, and their banter over the campers' purchases is, surprisingly, one of the best conversations Grantaire's had in a long time. When Courfeyrac and Combeferre come through with their cabin groups, they give Enjolras and Grantaire knowing glances and walk away snickering. Well, Courfeyrac walks away snickering - Combeferre is just good at pretending like he's not laughing. Courf just doesn't try to hide it.

* * *

The next time they run into each other, Gavroche is drowning.

Grantaire decided to come down to the beach on his day off and put his feet in the water and enjoy a cup of coffee. He also knows for a _fact_ that it freaks the kids out to see him outside of the TP, and he kind of feels like a celebrity when he's spotted on his days off.

Anyway, Enjolras and his cabin group are conveniently in the middle of swim time when Grantaire ambles down to the lake. He definitely didn't check with Jehan, the camp’s waterfront director, to see when Enjolras was coming down, and he definitely didn't do _that_ because he wanted to see Enjolras shirtless. No way.

Grantaire's on the beach, watching Enjolras absentmindedly, when Gavroche, Éponine's little brother, falls into the lake. Into the _deep end_. Gav is about four feet tall, and he's better at hiking than swimming, by far.

Before he knows it, Grantaire's jumping in after him, and when he reaches Gavroche he sees that Enjolras is already there, and they both kind of smile at each other as they carry Gav to the shore.

Unsurprisingly, Éponine is already there.

"Gav! _Gavroche Thénardier!_ Look at me when I am _talking_ to you!" She grabs his arm roughly as Grantaire wrings out the hem of his shirt, rather fruitlessly. Gavroche looks appropriately abashed and contrite, and Éponine, after a minute of talking to her brother in a low voice, troops back to the kitchen.

"Uh," a voice says from behind Grantaire. It's Enjolras. "You're all. Do you want - I can lend you my jeans. It's no problem, I actually have a towel. And you don't."

Grantaire smiles, a little more shyly than he'll admit. "All right."

Enjolras smiles right back and Grantaire is, certainly and irrevocably, _fucked_.

* * *

Before either of them fully realise it, they're spending more and more time together, dropping in on the other on their days off, offering to chaperone for canoe trips and cookouts and hikes, saving seats for each other at the dining hall.

It gets so bad that Grantaire figures out how Enjolras takes his coffee, and when to expect him to drink tea instead, and what his favourite flavour of jam is.

(Enjolras, in turn, knows Grantaire's favourite places to hide from people around camp, and he learns Grantaire's biggest insecurities are his smile, his art, and his interpersonal skills.)

This week, they both happen to have the same day off, probably due to some scheming by Combeferre, who's in charge of scheduling, and as usual Enjolras wanders in to the TP at about 10am, hair fuzzy and wearing a beaten-up Ben & Jerry's tie-dye shirt over a pair of cutoffs that are almost completely shredded at the bottoms. His freckles stand out on his face in the morning light.

"Morning, dandelion boy," Grantaire calls out from his perch on the crafts table. He's been going through and finding coloured pencils that need sharpening.

"Ugh, never say that again." Enjolras scrunches his nose. "You have a coffee machine, right?"

Grantaire nods. "Yeah, but. Gilda is very temperamental."

Enjolras starts for Grantaire, grabbing his wrist and dragging him to the hidden stairs to Grantaire's little apartment. "Take me to the coffee, _please_ , you don't even _know_ , R."

So Grantaire allows Enjolras to lead him to his _own apartment_ , thank you very much, and he brings out Gilda the Salvation Army coffeemaker and prays to all the gods that she works, which thank _fuck_ she does this morning.

Within a few minutes, they're both drinking coffee out of chipped mugs with slogans like _Ride For Kids 1986_ and _Jesus puts a smile on my face!_

Enjolras is sitting next to Grantaire on the small sofa that's straight out of 1977, sipping his coffee and slowly coming to life. Grantaire is jittery and on edge because Enjolras is so close and warm and his goddamn hair is just... Nobody should be this adorable in the morning.

Grantaire pulls out a packet of cigarettes - the ones he tries not to smoke on camp property because of the kids - and a lighter and turns to Enjolras. "Please don't tell anyone, yeah?"

Enjolras shrugs. "I've always wondered what it's like. Can I - can I try a drag?"

"I mean. It's really rough if you've never smoked," Grantaire mutters around the filter of the cigarette as he lights it. "I mean." He blushes. "I could shotgun you, but. I mean."

Enjolras colours as well, the tips of his ears and the tops of his cheekbones going slightly red. "All right," he says, and Grantaire's heart maybe stutters a little bit behind his ribs.

He takes a few drags, exhaling slowly and imagining his jitters flying away in the smoke, and then beckons to Enjolras.

Enjolras turns to face Grantaire, pulling his long, long legs up under him and peering intently at the cigarette (or Grantaire's lips, but Grantaire doesn't want to think about that), his eyes bluer than anything Grantaire's ever seen.

"Come here, then," Grantaire mutters, voice hoarse, and takes a drag and suddenly Enjolras is sealing his mouth over Grantaire's, and all Grantaire can do is exhale and try not to hyperventilate.

Enjolras pulls away, breathes out a plume of smoke, coughs delicately, and looks at Grantaire again. His eyes are dark.

"Again," he demands.

As soon as Grantaire's inhaled, Enjolras's mouth is on his again, but this time he doesn't pull away so quickly. Grantaire is positive he can feel Enjolras's hand on his side, fingers flicking up under his shirt. This - this is so _far_ from just a shotgun and Grantaire doesn't know what to do.

When they break apart, there's no smoke left between them. Enjolras just looks at Grantaire again, _licks his lips_ , and says "I should go. I have, uh. Reading. And Ferre and Courf want to go kayaking."

Grantaire still can't speak, and Enjolras unfolds himself and walks to the stairs, barely hesitating in front of Grantaire, as if he wanted to say something else.

When Grantaire hears the TP door shut, he falls onto his back.

This is not going to be good.

* * *

Grantaire doesn’t see much of Enjolras for the next couple of weeks. It’s probably because the sky decides to open up, seemingly permanently, and try its best to wash Camp down the mountain. The office has started sending letters to new campers before they come up, telling them to bring boots, jackets, and for the sweet Lord’s sake, at least five pairs of socks.

Sure, Enjolras still comes around to the TP every so often, but now it’s always with a bedraggled gang of campers, and Grantaire usually has to get spare towels as soon as they arrive so that they don’t get water everywhere, and then he has to teach them crafts or whatever, and as soon as he’s finished Enjolras shepherds them back out into the storm.

It’s baffling, to say the least. But Grantaire rolls with it, drinking cup after cup of coffee and staring out from the porch into the river that was once the road in front of the TP. The counsellors tried to turn it into a fun spot for paper boat races, but when the rain persisted and the fun wore off, the idea was quickly abandoned. Grantaire’s kind of glad about it - means no more kids out front when he doesn’t have to deal with them.

It’s a wet Thursday when Enjolras finally comes round again, sans campers, his hair dripping onto the faded wooden boards of the TP. Grantaire lifts an eyebrow.

“Decided to grace us with your presence again, o mighty Apollo?”

Enjolras shakes his head, not unlike a dog. “Don’t call me that,” he mutters, wrinkling his nose, and then looking up at Grantaire. “You don’t, by any chance, happen to have a towel?”

Grantaire nods, rifles through a cabinet, and pulls out an old, somewhat unfortunately tie-dyed towel. He remembers dyeing it, too, earlier in the summer when he had extra dye and no campers to use it up. He hands it to Enjolras, who takes it and smiles gratefully.

“I’m surprised you didn’t drown out there. I almost died on my way to the dining hall yesterday,” Grantaire quips, trying to ignore Enjolras towelling off his hair. How does someone look attractive whilst _towelling their hair_ , Grantaire wonders with a small degree of amazement.

“Luckily,” comes Enjolras’s muffled voice from inside the towel, “I can swim.” He tosses the towel back and unzips his jacket. “As we both know.”

Grantaire had not expected Enjolras to actually _make a joke_ , God forbid, and so he misses Enjolras’s throw completely, the towel landing on his face, soggy in parts and smelling of - “Nag Champa? You fucking hippie,” Grantaire says. “Of course you use Nag Champa shampoo. I bet you also own something that smells like sandalwood.”

Enjolras colours slightly. “Shut up,” he mutters, “I like how it smells. It’s better than any chemical shit. Just don’t tell Jehan, they’ll steal it all from me.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Grantaire laughs, then sobers, feeling suddenly awkward with Enjolras’s blue eyes boring into his murkier green ones. He busies himself with folding the towel, a bit unnecessarily.

Enjolras clears his throat. “Uh, I kind of came here because I wanted to… talk. About that morning.” He’s blushing harder now. Grantaire thinks his tongue’s become glued to the roof of his mouth, so he just looks down at his shoes, breaking their eye contact.

“It was - I shouldn’t have - I went a little overboard, I think,” Enjolras says, quietly, and Grantaire looks back up at him. Enjolras hasn’t looked away.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire manages. “I didn’t exactly stop you.” He twists his mouth, like he always does when he’s feeling awkward. Enjolras takes a step forward. This won’t end well.

“No, listen, you can tell me if it wasn’t cool. I won’t get offended, I know it was - not how friends act. With each other.” Enjolras shoves his hands into his pockets. “Javert would say something about how it was entirely not camp-appropriate, I think.”

Grantaire chuckles, looking down at his shoes again. “Yeah, well. I mean. I don’t get it? Personally? But I really. Didn’t mind. _Fuck_ this is weird, I’m so sorry, I’ll shut up now.”

He doesn’t notice how close Enjolras is until he looks up and Enjolras’s face is inches from his own.

“Please tell me if I’m going too far this time,” he says, and then he’s kissing Grantaire, lips warm. Grantaire forgets how to breathe.

“You still taste like smoke,” Enjolras has the nerve to say as they break apart, and Grantaire just has to grab him by the sleeve and pull him back in, kissing him properly this time. Their mouths move together, a small pocket of warmth in the draughty TP. Enjolras crowds closer, almost like he’s trying to melt into Grantaire, and Grantaire just moves his arms around Enjolras’s waist, Enjolras’s arms around his neck, and smiles into the kiss.

They barely notice the rain slowing to a stop outside, the downpour turning into a faint patter and eventually fading into residual water dripping from the corners of the roof.

“Say ‘cheese,’” someone says, and they wrench themselves apart to see Courfeyrac and his cabin group standing in the entrance to the TP, Courfeyrac brandishing his iPhone - something he’s _definitely_ not supposed to have, especially not in front of campers - and smiling wickedly.

“Go away, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire tries very hard to melt into the wall.

Courfeyrac shrugs, grabs the Tupperware container full of hemp off the table, and starts herding his campers out the door.

“You’d better bring that back,” Grantaire says, trying to sound threatening and totally normal and failing horrendously. Courfeyrac grins.

“I’m holding your hemp hostage until you tell me _everything_ ,” he says. “I will tie you to a chair with macramé necklaces and you will _never escape_ , ever!”

Enjolras turns to Grantaire, rolling his eyes as Courfeyrac and his flock of campers trundles off the porch.

“So, uh. Maybe we should take this… somewhere where young impressionable campers and their evil counsellors _won’t_ walk in on us,” he says, and Grantaire grabs his hand and tugs him in the direction of the stairs that lead to his apartment. Enjolras smiles and entwines his fingers with Grantaire’s.

* * *

When they’re finally up in Grantaire’s apartment, Enjolras wastes no time in pressing Grantaire against the door and kissing him languidly, only a hint of the heat and urgency from before remaining in his touch.

Grantaire opens his mouth against Enjolras’s, nipping gently at his lower lip. Enjolras moans and presses himself harder against Grantaire, palming his hip, fingers grazing bare skin and sending sparks out against Grantaire’s ribs.

“How - how far are we taking this,” Enjolras breathes out against Grantaire’s lips, “because I don’t want to push you, or make you uncomfortable, because I _really fucking like you._ ”

Grantaire inhales sharply through his nose. “I - _fuck_ , Enjolras, you must know how I’ve been basically in love with you for weeks,” he says, voice catching in his throat. “I’d be fine just - just kissing you, I’d be fine with having sex with you, I just _want you_.” He presses his lips to the pulse point under Enjolras’s jaw, hands tangling in Enjolras’s thin t-shirt.

“Right, then,” Enjolras says, and pulls away, stripping off his jacket and kicking off his shoes and socks. “Come here, _please_ , I need to touch you.”

Grantaire goes, toeing off his own sandals, worrying at the hem of his own t-shirt. Enjolras’s eyes are dark as he pulls Grantaire down on the bed and laying down next to him, curling his fingers into Grantaire’s side.

“This okay?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and then leans forward to kiss Enjolras, open-mouthed and heady with the knowledge that Enjolras is in his bed, dark-eyed and loose-limbed and _asking to be with him_ , like Grantaire would have said anything but yes because he wasn’t lying, he’s been practically in love with Enjolras since he opened his mouth in the first week of camp.

They make quick work of their shirts, skin sparking against skin, mouths barely leaving each other. Enjolras is sucking a hickey into Grantaire’s collarbone as Grantaire tangles his fingers in Enjolras’s hair, drawing out a moan.

“ _Fuck_ , R, please,” he manages, and Grantaire tugs again, eliciting another moan.

“Shh,” Grantaire says. “There are _campers_ out there, and I’d rather not have Javert barge in on us because I’m literally about to go down on you and I don’t want that to be, you know. Ruined,” he finishes lamely, and he sees Enjolras’s pupils dilate.

“I can be quiet,” he says, and Grantaire is _gone_. He pops the button on Enjolras’s jeans, looking up at him.

“Okay?” Enjolras just nods, hands fluttering around Grantaire’s shoulders as he drags down the offending jeans and _fucking hell Enjolras is not wearing underwear_. Grantaire has to rest his head against Enjolras’s hipbone and swallow thickly because fuck if that’s not the hottest thing that’s ever happened.

“Fucking - get on with it,” Enjolras says in a voice closer to a growl than anything, and Grantaire just looks up at him, arches an eyebrow, and swallows Enjolras down.

The moan that Enjolras lets out is almost pornographic, and Grantaire pulls off, prompting Enjolras to whine in frustration.

“I thought you were going to try _quiet_ ,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras flings an arm across his eyes.

“Grantaire, I will be quiet, I _promise_ , just please do not stop, _please_ ,” Enjolras babbles, and Grantaire goes back down, licking and nipping teasingly before inching his mouth down around Enjolras, tongue swirling and cheeks hollowing.

It’s not long before Enjolras’s fingers tense around Grantaire’s shoulders and he’s bucking his hips, coming hard into Grantaire’s mouth with only a small groan. Grantaire swallows, grinning, and moves up the bed to kiss Enjolras, who responds lazily, not minding the taste of himself in Grantaire’s mouth.

“You - you’re not,” Enjolras starts, then bites his lips. “Would it be weird if I wanted to watch you get off?”

Grantaire exhales, arousal spiking, because this _should not be hot_ , the idea of this shouldn’t be hot, but it is.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, and Enjolras is on him, stripping him out of his jeans and boxers and kissing him again, pressing his hips to Grantaire’s.

Grantaire snakes his hand down between them, curling his hand around himself and moving, hand brushing Enjolras’s stomach with every stroke. Enjolras opens his mouth against Grantaire’s, brushing his tongue along Grantaire’s lower lip and _in_ , and Grantaire gasps and moves faster, Enjolras’s hands stroking along his sides, occasionally dragging his nails against Grantaire’s ribs and making Grantaire arch against him, hand moving faster and mouth opening in a silent moan as he came between them.

Grantaire opens his eyes to look at Enjolras, whose expression is a mixture of awe, satisfaction, and a hint of arousal. Grantaire leans in to kiss him, mouth soft and lazy from orgasm, and leans over to pick up his shirt to clean them off with.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” Grantaire smiles to himself. “No, really,” Enjolras continues. “I really - I. I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

Grantaire looks up at Enjolras, who is propped on one elbow, looking uncertain. The sun is shining weakly through the clouds, but even that is enough to illuminate Enjolras, glinting off of the cloud of his hair and making his skin glow. Grantaire is, for the millionth time, _fucked_.

“I don’t either,” Grantaire says. “And yeah, ‘summer camp romances’ are supposed to be fucked from the beginning, but… I don’t know.” He bites his lip. “I want to make it work with you. And that’s - that’s rare, for me.”

He looks up at Enjolras, who's smiling now.

“Good,” he says, and moves to kiss Grantaire.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Middle to end of summer and trying to figure out where they stand. Vignettes from July to August.

After the weeks of rain in June, July has turned Camp hot and sultry. The days seem even longer because everything moves slower - it's impossible to work up any energy to do anything when it's _this_ hot.

Grantaire's taken to bringing his record player down into the TP and putting on Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin and The Doors, and on their days off, all the counsellors gravitate towards the building, shuffling in and slumping over on the tables and benches, listening to the music and trying to cool off in the still darkness of the interior.

Even Enjolras has lost his usual pep, electing to sprawl on Grantaire's bed and exchange lazy kisses instead of the hurried encounters they'd been having in June, at the beginning of this whole… thing. Grantaire's not complaining - they'd almost been caught by Javert a couple of times and Courfeyrac had _definitely_ come round to the TP while they were occupied more than once. (Courfeyrac insists he came by mistake. Enjolras says he came for blackmail purposes. Combeferre agrees with Enjolras.)

It's a Saturday at the end of July and Grantaire is down at the waterfront, talking to Jehan. It's rare that there's nobody else down here, but the campers are gone and he knows that Éponine just broke out the lemonade at the dining hall, which explains why the waterfront is quiet and empty.

"So, are you going to keep seeing him after Camp?"

Grantaire blinks at Jehan, who's twirling a strand of their hair around their finger. There's some sort of lake grass woven into a complicated braid in their hair, which is nothing out of the ordinary.

"I - maybe?" Grantaire shrugs. "It's weird. I've never done this sort of thing before. Summer romance. All that bullshit."

Jehan nods sagely. "I see. Well, I mean, you guys seem to have something really lovely, and I think you'll figure something out."

"Maybe," Grantaire says darkly, "or maybe he'll just abandon me cold turkey after the last day and never speak to me again."

Jehan looks crossly at Grantaire, which is hard to take seriously because there is _grass_ in their hair and their freckles are probably the most adorable freckles in the universe.

"You're an idiot if you're choosing to maintain that delusion," Jehan says, and Grantaire bites his lip. "Enjolras clearly cares for you. He's not the love 'em and leave 'em type. He's more the… how do you say this. He won't give you up for anything. You know this, though."

"Yeah?" Grantaire has trouble believing this. He knows that Jehan is right - they always are - but he's never had luck with relationships and he really, _really_ wants this thing with Enjolras to work. 

"Yeah," Jehan says, and pats Grantaire on the knee. "Now go put on some sun cream, because your nose is a frankly startling shade of red."

Grantaire swats Jehan's hand away, laughing. "Fucking lifeguards and your sun protection!"

Jehan wrinkles their nose and throws the bottle of Coppertone at Grantaire. "Beat it, creep." Jehan settles themself back down on their towel on the dock, pulling a thick volume out of the rescue dinghy tethered nearby and settling back down to read in the sun.

Grantaire raises a hand in goodbye, heading to the dining hall in search of lemonade, applying the sunscreen to his nose as he walks.

* * *

It's eleven o'clock at night when Grantaire is awoken by Enjolras crawling into bed. He's hot, even though the sun has been down for hours, and his hair is damp where it curls around his ears and the nape of his neck.

"Well, hi there," Grantaire rasps, "so good of you to let yourself in."

Enjolras snuffles against Grantaire's neck, heaving out a hot sigh. "You'd never turn me away," he replies, "so your argument is moot. You're all sweaty."

"Well, you see, it's hot out basically all the time now, and _some_ one who is approximately a million degrees has decided to plaster himself against my side."

Grantaire can almost hear Enjolras rolling his eyes, but then he sits up and peels off his shirt - even in the dim light of his room, Grantaire can see that it's the one Courfeyrac made for the counsellors earlier in the summer - "Treat Yo' Self" is silkscreened on the front in atrocious block lettering, and Enjolras had promptly cut out the collar and tie-dyed the shirt, like he does with basically every shirt he owns. 

The silvery light of the moon catches in his collarbones and the soft creases of his abdomen, and Grantaire has to catch his breath.

"You're beautiful," he breathes before he can catch himself, and Enjolras pauses and blinks owlishly, eyelashes pale in the moonlight.

"I - stop that," he mutters, and leans down to kiss Grantaire gently. "You, too," he whispers, words feather-light against Grantaire's lips.

Grantaire squeezes his eyes closed and tries to believe it.

* * *

"Morning," Enjolras yawns, and Grantaire cracks open one eye.

"Is it?"

Enjolras nods. His hair is defying gravity, fuzzed up and foaming across the pillow, golden and yellow in the morning sunshine. According to Grantaire's ancient alarm clock, it's six a.m. and Enjolras's freckles are _incredibly_ distracting.

"Your freckles are distracting," Grantaire says, and palms Enjolras's bare hip, feeling the curve of bone under thin, warm skin.

Enjolras heaves out a sigh through his nose, air whistling around morning congestion. "Sorry. They've got a mind of their own, you know."

Grantaire smiles and drops a kiss on Enjolras's collarbone. They could talk about the future later.

* * *

Two weeks later, Grantaire is sitting with Éponine and Combeferre around the fire pit at the Chateau, one of the staff cabins that's more secluded, drinking spiked coffee and throwing pinecones into the fire.

"So, you're saying that you… want to date him but don't think he wants to date you?" Éponine has her eyes narrowed in confusion. "I don't get it. He's crazy about you."

Combeferre nods in agreement. "Enjolras rarely gets involved with anyone - trust me - but he's so committed to you. He truly does care for you."

Grantaire trusts Combeferre's advice. He and Enjolras have known each other since they were kids, and they (and Courfeyrac) go to the same college when they're not at Camp. As close as Grantaire and Enjolras have become, they'll never have the same bond that Enjolras has with Ferre and Courf.

"I - all right. But how do I even say this to him? How do I broach the topic? I can't just, you know, go up to him like, 'Hey! Do you want to date me forever, because I'm kind of hopelessly in love with you!'"

"Um, I think you're good with just that," comes Enjolras's voice from behind them, and Grantaire is gripped with the sudden urge to throw himself into the fire.

"Hello, Enjolras," Combeferre says, calm as ever, and Éponine snorts loudly into her coffee.

"I'm - bye," Grantaire manages, and runs away.

* * *

"Wait! Wait," Enjolras pants, the door to the TP slamming shut after him. Grantaire is perched on the countertop, tugging at his shoelaces and wishing he was somewhere else. "Did you mean what you said?"

Grantaire shrugs, not meeting Enjolras's eyes. "Yeah, I mean." He swallows heavily. "I'm kind of in love with you, but I didn't want to… scare you away. Or anything." He pulls off his shoes, the heavy rubber of his Converses thudding against the dusty floorboards.

"R," Enjolras says, quieter this time, "how could you not know that I'm pretty gone for you too?"

Grantaire looks up and Enjolras is there, inches away.

"You're joking. You care about Camp more than anything - I - I'd thought we were just. A fling. Or something. I don't know. This is confusing," Grantaire says, a smile creeping its way onto his face despite his words.

"Not joking," Enjolras chuckles, "and I don't do _flings._ You're, like, the second person I've ever had sex with. You're special, Taire."

Grantaire reaches out and snags the hem of Enjolras's t-shirt (faded red tie-dye that's more pink than anything, with illustrations of berries and jars and the slogan "Fifth Annual Camp Jam-boree") and pulls him in. "Stop talking now, please," he says, and kisses Enjolras. He smells like a campfire and pine needles and his horrible hippie shampoo, but his mouth curves against Grantaire's as he smiles into the kiss.

* * *

"So you _do_ have bracelets," Enjolras crows, coming down from Grantaire's room with the small, battered tin in his hands. By now he's accumulated more than fifty bracelets - more than he'd be able to wear at one time even if he _did_ wear them at all.

"Dude. I'm the arts and crafts guy. Obviously I have bracelets," Grantaire says with a smile, and Enjolras frowns.

"You have more than _me,_ " he pouts. "Nobody has more than me. Not even Courf, and he's everyone's favourite."

Grantaire shrugs. "Comes with the territory. Yours are all pretty, though; mine are mostly weird rejects from kids who didn't know how to do macramé or whatever. Rest easy, kid, you're still on top."

"Shut up," Enjolras says. "At least you're wearing my bracelets. That's all that matters."

Grantaire is, in fact, wearing Enjolras's bracelets. He'd tried to not wear any, because he didn't want to mess them up, but Enjolras had sighed, said that "the point of bracelets was to mess them up, they aren't made of _solid gold_ , Grantaire," and so Grantaire had caved. 

Now he's got six bracelets on his wrists, from Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Éponine, Bahorel, and Jehan. 

In turn, Enjolras is sporting a woven ankle bracelet Grantaire made him, green and blue and yellow with glow-in-the-dark beads. It's the only thing he's got on his ankle, marking him in the way of Camp that he's Grantaire's, that Grantaire is his. It definitely doesn't make Grantaire excited to see it. Not at all.

"Yeah, well. Don't think you're special because of it," Grantaire teases, and Enjolras punches him in the shoulder.

"I have to go help with swim time," he says. "Try not to pine." He kisses Grantaire on the corner of his mouth, warm and fleeting, and breezes out of the TP into the warm afternoon sunshine.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, touching the bright threads of Enjolras's bracelets on his wrist.

* * *

It's the last week of the summer and Grantaire never thought he'd be sad that Camp was almost over. All the campers have gone home, and it's just the staff left, cleaning and repairing and painting and getting everything ready for next summer.

Grantaire is whitewashing the inside of a cabin with Cosette, who's wearing short dungarees and a striped shirt and looks, as usual, incredibly cute. She and Marius are a couple, and though Marius is the most hapless guy Grantaire knows, Cosette's head over heels for him. They're probably going to win Camp Couple at the closing banquet. It's that serious.

"So, what are you going to do when you're out of here?" Cosette nudges Grantaire with her hip. "I imagine it's going to be something exciting or dangerous. Knowing you," she says, almond eyes crinkling at the corner. There's paint in her dark hair.

"Nah," Grantaire shrugs, "just going back for my final year of college. So, basically, the opposite of exciting and dangerous." He dips his brush back into the paint can. "How about you? Gonna make an honest man of Marius?"

Cosette sticks out her tongue and flicks some paint at Grantaire. "Hush, you," she says. "I'm waiting for him to ask. He's got to get the courage at _some_ point. I've been dropping hints, though - I've got a whole Pinterest board dedicated to weddings. And he follows me, so I know he sees it."

Grantaire is extremely unsurprised that Marius has a Pinterest, mostly because he knows that Marius would do anything for Cosette, and that's not limited to the realms of social media.

"Good luck with that," he says. "It'll happen. I see it in his eyes. He's like a frightened rabbit, which means he's working up the balls to do something important."

Cosette nods. "That sounds about right." She chuckles. "My poor boy, so predictably ridiculous. What fools love makes us, eh?"

Grantaire laughs out loud. "You've got that fucking right."

Cosette smiles toothily, tongue peeking out from between her teeth. Grantaire is scared that she's going to start planning his and Enjolras's wedding too, if she hasn't already. Somehow that doesn't worry him that much. He shakes his head to rid it of that train of thought, and Cosette grins like she can read his mind.

* * *

The lake is still and dark, pinpricks of stars and the waxing sliver of moon reflecting in its surface. Grantaire and Enjolras are sprawled on the dock, Enjolras twining his fingers idly through Grantaire's, worrying at his knuckles, his fingernails, the rough callouses on the pads of his fingertips.

"I know we'll be close to each other, but I'm going to miss seeing you every day," Enjolras sighs, speaking softly like he's trying not to disturb the silence of the lake. 

"Me too," Grantaire replies. "Like, so incredibly much."

They lie in silence for a few more minutes, the minute waves on the lake lapping against the underside of the dock, thunking quietly. A fish jumps somewhere in the distance and the crickets are more subdued than usual.

Grantaire props himself up on an elbow.

"Why are we getting all misty? You have my phone number. We go to school in the same city. This will be - this will be _easy._ " He leans down and presses his forehead to Enjolras's.

"It's because it won't be Camp," Enjolras says quietly, and Grantaire sighs. 

"Yeah, I know."

Enjolras shifts, turning his body into Grantaire's and leaning up to kiss him. Grantaire presses back, lips warm against Enjolras's, opening up to flicker his tongue along Enjolras's lower lip.

"I love you," Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire brings his hand up to Enjolras's face, threading his fingers through blonde hair and smoothing his hand down his tanned cheek.

"I love you too, weirdo," Grantaire replies, and kisses Enjolras again under the starry sky, the smells of the woods and the lake and Camp surrounding them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me [here](http://grantairricade.tumblr.com) on tumblr, and please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!
> 
> If you want to hear a song from this chapter (the part where it's, like, super hot and R listens to Jimi Hendrix), click [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5Sq_8JhboI). Jimi Hendrix - Bleeding Heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! More chapters are coming, so stay tuned!
> 
> Please leave a comment if you'd like, I love to hear feedback and impressions.
> 
> Come find me [on tumblr!](http://grantairricade.tumblr.com)


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